When last we left our hero, he was looking at a personal entry on List 99, on the grounds of a knicker elastic fetish and a collection of gynaecological information leaflets.
If you really need to ask, read the last post.
This episode opens with our luckless individual enjoying a much-earned whiskey, in the sitting room of The Stone Cottage bed and breakfast, Westport, Ontario. Ensconced in a comfortable armchair, with a good book and surrounded by, pretty much, his entire family, he is at peace with The Universe.
Something is not quite right however, for some little while he has noticed a strange fluttering from the chimney behind his chair. He looks up and catches Joyce’s eye. He and his mother-in-law have both heard the noise and look quizzically at each other. It doesn’t seem like anything is about to leap out at them, so they both return to their books.
One by one, everybody drifts off to bed and they leave our hero alone in the deepening gloom of the night. This is a beautiful place and the nights are warm and cosy. He pours another Gentleman Jack and turns a page.
Fwwwiippp!! Something passes over his head with a light flapping sound, skimming his hair.
The light buzz of the alcohol is dispelled instantly and our hero is on his feet thinking, “What the f@<k was that?”
Fwwwiipp!!!! The bat swoops clumsily over his head and flaps its’ way to the far side of the room.
“B@!!@cks.” Thinks our hero. The situation is clear, the doors to his parents’ room are closed, as are the doors to the kids’ room, John and Joyce’s and his and Lorraine’s, therefore leave the thing fluttering around down here, finish his Jack Daniels and get to bed.
Deal with the flapping nuisance in the morning.
The whiskey disappears quickly and our hero wends his way up the stairs.
A jarring sensation in the ribs and a panicked, “Paul! Paul! There’s something in the room!”
“B@!!@cks.” Thinks our hero. “That would be the bat.” He murmurs and rolls over.
“The bat??? The BAT????!!!!” Comes the muffled shriek from under the bed sheets.
Amsel, Sheri. “Mammalia.” Bat (Little Brown). Exploring Nature Educational Resource. © 2005 – 2015. April 9, 2015.
Retrieved from http://exploringnature.org/db/detail.php?dbID=43&detID=1089.
“This isn’t going to end well,” thinks our hero, “or soon.” He reaches for the bedside light and illuminates the dark shape swooping about overhead, and the frantically jerking, ghost-like shape under the white sheets next to him. “Yep,” he continues, “the bat from downstairs. He, or she, came out of the chimney after you all went to bed.”
“Why don’t you go downstairs and sit in the living room while I sort it out?” Suggests our calm, collected hero.
“No! No! I can’t get out!” Shrieks the ghost.
“I can’t sort it out with you here, so go downstairs and get yourself a cup of hot chocolate or something. Now would be good.”
“What about Amelia?”
The three-year old is curled, blissfully unaware, in her own bed at the foot of ours. “She’ll be fine.” Reassures our hero, thinking, “So long as she stays asleep.”
Lorraine leaps from the bed and dives for the door, with a speed and agility usually seen only in top athletes and performing dolphins.
The door closes and our hero rises to do battle. Scanning the room, he empties a large beach bag, within which he intends to capture the miscreant (hopefully) alive.
He then opts for a small, round metal tray on a nearby dresser. He hopes to use this to “encourage” the fluttering mammal into the bag… or at least “stun” it and throw it out of a window.
Our hero has a plan and is armed. He does however, cut a strange figure, standing stark naked in the middle of the room, beach-bag hanging gaping from one hand and beer tray at the ready in the other.
Our hero has lost patience with the gentle, “encouragement” idea, as the stupid, bl@@dy, flapping thing keeps throwing itself, kamikaze-like at his head. He is now flailing with more determination and not a little bit of frustrated anger. Several times, he has only narrowly missed the expensive looking glasses, standing on the nearby dresser, with the destructive curve of his beer tray. He wonders idly if anybody on the street below can see the naked man, lunging around the room, swinging his tray and brightly-coloured bag, like some sort of deranged, nudist, butterfly collector.
Fwwwiipp-thud!! At last, the tray has made solid contact. But even as our hero moves across the room to examine his fallen foe, he knows that the blow he landed was a little too solid. He prods the small furry bundle with the edge of the tray and nothing stirs. With honest regret, our hero collects the little creature and slips it into the beach bag.
Dragging a pair of shorts on, he makes his way downstairs to his anxious spouse.
“You can go back to bed now… Dracula’s in the bag.” He announces, as he opens the front door. “I’ll probably let another dozen of the bl@@dy things in now.” He muses as he heads over to the end of the garden and drops the little corpse into the bushes. “Poor little b@gger.” Our hero thinks. “He probably told the wife he was only nipping out for a quick moth with the lads.”